Page 7 of Santa's Girl
BECCA
November turned the page to December, and the air went from crisp to biting.
Huntley was still texting.
He’d always been persistent. Once he set his eyes on something, he usually got it—deals, promotions, the best table at the newest restaurant. I was supposed to feel flattered he wanted me back.
But I wasn’t stupid.
Climbing ladders—both corporate and social—was his sport. I might have looked the part beside him, but I was more about quiet nights by the gas fireplace, green tea and honey, a soft blanket, and maybe a book. I liked antique markets and thrifting for things with a little history. Huntley needed everything modern, sleek, and showroom-perfect.
We’d never work, and I knew it.
So the Hallmark Christmas Channel and a steaming mug of cocoa became my new Friday night date. Sometimes Stanley even joined me, curling into my lap and snoring softly while we watched small towns fall in love on TV.
Caroline kept teasing me about my “fake mountain man boyfriend.”
“If only I could write him into my life story,” I’d told her once.
Then, on a random Monday in mid-December, my boss emailed to request a Zoom meeting—with HR.
Laid off. At Christmas.
I never saw it coming. Something about the Eastern market, automation, AI being “more efficient for the company’s bottom line.” All I heard was that I was being sacked right before the holidays.
That afternoon, Huntley’s persistence almost cracked me.
His latest text sat open on my phone:Meet me for drinks tonight. Let’s talk.
My fingers hovered over the screen.
I was at a low point.
And that was exactly when men like Huntley were the most dangerous.
The next morning,I was still in pajamas at ten, sipping tea and scrolling job boards when my phone lit up.Mom.
“Staying home again?” she asked the second I answered. “When are you bringing Stanley back?”
I groaned. “I can’t let life turn me into this, Mom. I’m only thirty-two.”
“And your clock?—”
“Don’t say it.”
She huffed, then her tone softened. “I’m worried about Aunt Margie. She’s hardly visited since your father passed three years ago. She’s getting older, and I invited her for the holidays, but she refused again.”
“Maybe it’s because you have a boyfriend now, Mom,” I said gently, “and she can’t get over the fact you’re moving on from Dad.”
“But don’t I deserve happiness?” she asked quietly. “Old age is not the time to be alone.”
I bit my lip. She wasn’t wrong.
After we hung up, I sat there staring at my mug. Aunt Margie lived just outside Pigeon Forge, up in the Smoky Mountain range. Google put it at about four hours away—weather permitting.
A thought started to form.
If I went to see her, maybe I could nudge her back toward family for the holidays. And—purely coincidentally, of course—I could post a few snowy mountain pics to my socials.
